Tuesday, January 04, 2005
I know I have something to say. Whatever I type, I should erase all of it and try again. I noticed that when my computer explodes and I have to start a post again, it's always much leaner and more coherent the second time through. I believe these are called drafts by writers. I am not. I vomit forth and press publish with nary a reread. The next day I come back and correct my spelling errors. This will be a first and only draft. Apologies.
Last Thursday I felt strange. I came home from work at eleven, with nothing much to do. I felt dirty, so I got into the shower, set it to its hottest, and sat under the stream in fetal position for an hour. I felt like a dumpling. I could not get dry when I left it. Despite a frantic towelling the water kept running from my forehead and pooling at the nape of my neck, right inside my collarbone. For an hour. I thought about breathing for a long time.
New Year's Eve was also off kilter. I borrowed ten bucks to get into an "all you can drink eight kegger," which turned out to be an "all the $3 beers you can afford you broke worthless fuckface" two-kegger. I am fortunate to have genrous friends. I spoke to the promoter about the lie on their flyer and info line. He said "if you don't like it you can fucking go home." My buddy Pat wanted to call the cops and bust the fuckers. We didn't. I was in a bad mood, but I had a nice time. We had an afterparty drinkathon at a friend's house afterwards. I was a jackass. I drank a lot of somebody else's liquor, laid on my back, and then I laughed at the ceiling for a while. Really. I was glad to get home and sleep it off.
The rest of the weekend was spent recuperating in bed. I watched every romantic comedy that came on TV. You've Got Mail, Sleepless In Seattle, When Harry Met Sally, Someone Like You, Only You, Runaway Bride, and probably something else I've mercifully forgotten. I should've killed myself instead. I tried to make up for it Monday by watching Man On Fire, The Chronicles Of Riddick, and The Punisher but I'm afraid a part of my masculinity has permanently been scorched away and no amount of revenge fantasy flicks are going to bring it back.
After the humiliation of buying cigarettes with dimes and nickels two days in row, I finished my last cigarette yesterday. I spaced the last two apart by about 12 hours. I'm not going to buy any even if I get my paycheck today, nor am I bumming them from people. I'm not going to tell anybody I quit. They will play with me. Taunt me. Blow smoke at me. Stuff like that. If they notice anything I'll just say I'm having a lung break. Or something. They would never believe it. I've always said that I'll smoke until I keel over dead. I like smoking, fuck my health, etc. A virtual cancer advocate.
I talked some shit about exersize a while back. I'm going to bring that dusty Tony Little Gazelle thing inside and set it up. Anytime I want a cigarette, I'll just hop on that thing until I get an embolism. So far I haven't had a bad craving, but from what I've heard it'll take a couple days to really cave my brainpan.
This morning I cracked and ate mixed nuts. It took me ten tries to crack open a praline without shattering the nut into shards. The pecans I always broke. Almonds are easy. So are some other ones. I don't know what the hell they are. I still like in-shell salted peanuts the best, and you don't need tools for those. You can squirrel them.
I am a squirrel. Yes.
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